Peter Cottontail
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: Because sometimes there's nothing left, and a stranger comes hopping down the bunny trail.


Uploaded a second time, because I just realized that my computer somehow turned melodramatic into mellow dramatic.

Peter Cottontail

The poster didn't quite hide the hole in the wall, but then again, the incense burner didn't quite hide the smell of mildew either. At least the room was almost completely dry, and more importantly, the lock on the door was fully functional. Even now, there were sounds out in the hallway—sounds that spoke of suffering, and leaking pipes, and the click-clattering of spider splicers. So long as the sounds stayed out there, Ruth Conlisk didn't mind very much, but sometimes, when something scratched against the metal door, her eyes drifted upward with a wary gleam. Ah, life in Rapture.

The woman in question lounged on her bed, a cheap romance novel loosely held in her right hand, and a still burning cigarette sitting in the ashtray on the bed beside her. She hadn't smoked before that fateful New Years party in 1959, but things had changed since then.

_Creaaaaaaaaaaaaak._

Her free hand itched for the shotgun that leaned against the bed—double barrel, fully upgraded, good stuff—but she held steady, waiting for the noise to pass. Oh yes, a_ lot_ of things had changed.

"Ruth," the radio beside her buzzed. "Ruth!"

"I'm here," she answered, sitting up straighter, and grabbing the small handheld radio from her bedside table. Her novel was tossed aside, and what a piece of shit it had been anyway. Sentimental, kissy nonsense that she read more out of habit and boredom than real interest.

"It's Cynthia," a feminine voice spoke over the radio.

"I know who it is," Ruth replied. "What do you want? I thought that the radio system had been destroyed." She hadn't heard from anyone in almost three weeks, and any expectations of contact had since faded. The system had originally been installed way back during the war, which was what? Ten years ago now? Time didn't mean much in this sunken city, just that a few more pipes broke, and a few more people met bloody ends or converted to Lamb's crazed, religious nonsense.

"The system never broke," the other woman's voice continued. "It's just that almost everyone who was part of the system has died. That or they're too spliced up to care about keeping in contact anymore."

"Some of us are still sane down here," Ruth scoffed, now standing and leaning against one of the room's disgustingly colored walls. They were an off-pink color that suited the whoring that had been going on here during the war, and being in such sharp contrast to Ruth's prior quarters, the woman found it oddly fitting that the ugliness of such a business was now physically reflected by her environment. Of course, there weren't any customers at this point, and the few men who did seem interested were so riddled with plasmids and Eve that letting them inside was a liability that she didn't need or desire. Plus, so many of them had been deformed by over-splicing, the stupid idiots.

"Yeah, some of us are still sane, but we're not exactly a majority, Ruthie. I haven't seen a totally sane person in months. I thought that you were dead too. I didn't think that you'd answer my call. I was just hoping."

"So what do you want?" she questioned while listening to a particularly loud shriek from out in the hallway. Perhaps two splicers were duking it out with one another for Adam rights, but then she heard the low, rumbling growl and heavy footfalls that proceeded the walking tanks of Rapture: Big Daddies. It sounded like one of the protective, but seemingly mindless brutes was giving someone hell.

"I got in some trouble, Ruth, some real bad trouble. This Father Wales guy has the splicers bringing him corpses to offer to Little sisters. It's damn freaky if you ask me, but…I don't know. He's got some good ideas, and I've been going to his services. It's like things will get good again, but…mmm."

"But what, sinful Cynthia?" Ruth demanded, her voice growing harsher. "Don't come to me for help if you've gotten yourself all twisted in a knot with this father of yours. Keep your troubles on your own doorstep."

"Oh, it's not that," Cynthia giggled, the sound bouncing from the radio with the energy of an upside-down jester. Ruth's mouth tilted downward at its unexpectedness, conclusions already coming together within her head. After all, there was never any reason to giggle down here unless you were crazy. "I mean," the other woman continued, her voice growing somber again. "I knew that it was a bad idea, but he was talking real nice, and everyone was passing around some syringes. It got to me, and I just…"

"This conversation is over," Ruth stated. "Goodbye, girl. I don't…"

"No!" Cynthia shrieked, sounding desperate. "Don't stop talking. Keep talking. I don't think that I'm quite right. No, I know that I'm not right, but I'm lucid now. Don't I sound lucid? I just want everything to be over, Ruthie. I'm going to march right out of this room and find a Big Daddy while I'm lucid. I'm going to let him stomp me to bits, and then there won't be anymore calls. I promise."

This was the world that she lived in, wasn't it? Ruth sat down on the edge of her worn bed, and stared at the photo hanging on the wall opposite her. It showed a handsome young man, who was beaming at the camera as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She was wearing his jacket, and because it had been too large for her, she looked ridiculous, but what a wonderful memory that had been. Now that handsome man was dead, and he'd been dead for a long time, having vanished during the war. Ruth truly hoped that he was dead, and that he wasn't wandering around somewhere, so spliced and deformed that he couldn't even remember his own name anymore. She'd spent years looking for anything, even a corpse, but by now...

"You still there, Ruthie?" a strained voice gulped around a sob.

"I'm still here," she promised.

"Like I was saying; I'm gonna find a Big Daddy, and then it will all be over for me. I just thought that someone should know. So many people have died that no one cares anymore, but I'd like you to care. I'd like someone to be aware that Cynthia Spade is about to be snuffed out of existence. It's important to me."

"I hear you," Ruth answered, still staring at her photo. "I'll mark it in my journal." But she didn't have one.

"Thanks. Thanks a bunch. I mean…gosh, but we're not even friends. Thanks though. I thought that someone should know." What difference did it make? Ruth knew the answer, but even she didn't like it as her eyes meandered toward the room's door, which had become both her protection and her cage. She hated this damn place.

"I'm going to go now," Cynthia said.

"Alright," Ruth mindlessly answered. "Say hello to the Big Daddy for me." She'd thought of killing herself as well, but for some reason, she always held back right when she was about to go through with it. Maybe it was human instinct to survive, but then again, maybe she was just a coward.

"Bye, Ruthie."

"Bye, Cynthia." Then the radio went dead.

"And another butterfly goes up in flames," Ruth spoke to herself. "Hope that you're proud of your family, Lamb." The sick part was that Lamb probably was proud. The batty woman was as misguided and delusional as Ryan had been. Fontaine had been the third power player in Rapture's short history, and perhaps he'd been a total crook, but at least he'd been realistic. The grime beneath Ruth's fingernails was real. The torn teddy bear that sat in the corner of the room, lost and abandoned by some child who'd likely been running for their life, was real. What wasn't real was an ideal like Lamb's utopia or Ryan's elevated humanity, and speaking of delusions, Ruth's attention returned to that horrid book of hers.

Her hand almost reached for the flimsy paperback, but then she stood, choosing to grab her shotgun instead. It was hardly ladylike to stuff extra shells into her dress's pockets, but then again, the dress had once been a bright emerald, now faded to more of an olive color. She didn't exactly cut a ladylike figure as she stepped outside of her small room and into the hallway beyond either, but she did have her thick, blond hair pulled into an elegant bun, and she bathed on a regular basis. There were perks to living near the apartment complex's old necessity store, and there was never a shortage of water. In fact, Ruth showered in the cold water that streamed through a hole in the hallway ceiling. It wasn't like anyone was coming to fix the broken pipe or play peeping Tom.

"Home sweet home," she murmured as she stood by the tarnished railing directly beyond her doorway. The apartment building consisted of open levels that overlooked and enclosed a central courtyard, and so, the landing outside of her room also functioned as a balcony. The neighbors had once set chairs beside the railing in order to watch people coming and going, and the remains of a restaurant sat one level up, just above her head. She'd once spent her mornings there, enjoying coffee with her fiancé before he went to work, but then the bad times had come, and old businesses had closed while others had opened. After all, this place was called Siren Alley for a reason.

"Hey, where did you put that ribbon?" a splicer yelled, but Ruth couldn't spot the speaker. It sounded like the woman was downstairs, lurking somewhere in the back hallways of the main floor. "Did you rib it out of my hair again?"

"You don't have any hair to worry about!" a male splicer yelled back. "Stop your bitching." Ruth didn't bother batting an eyelash as she listened to the conversation drift off, and with a tired eye, she took in the peeling wallpaper, torn carpet, and cracked ceilings. Rusty blood decorated the walls as surely as the cracks did, and someday, it wouldn't surprise her if this entire place caved in. At least Ryan had hired competent architects, or everyone might be dead by now. As was, Rapture was left to stand as a ruined shadow of its former glory, and it _had_ been beautiful. Now it felt like a derelict tomb, and even the graceful, art-deco sculptures that she'd once so loved looked sad and broken—fallen angels holding up the remains of a dead dream.

Shotgun held at the ready, Ruth began walking along the landing, her feet leading her toward the closest stairs, which would take her one level up to the restaurant. She often made use of the place's pantry, which she kept stocked through weekly scavenging trips. Sure, it was dangerous to walk around Rapture, but food was a necessity, and she didn't have the room or cooling system in her room to store food closer to 'home'. The place where she lived wasn't even a proper room, but a large storage closet that she'd converted into a bedroom when the lock on her old apartment had broken.

_What to eat today…? Something canned, just like everyday._

With a sarcastic glint to her eyes, and her ballet flats quietly making their way across a tile floor that should have been white, but wasn't, Ruth navigated her way around overturned tables and broken glass. The restaurant's kitchen was there, beyond that large, open doorway with one collapsed, support beam. If no one was around, Ruth might even stroll in there and fire up the fryer for some French fries. There was one bag left somewhere in the freezer.

"How are you feeling today, Fred?" she called, her voice dry and eyes empty as she walked by the recognizable corpse of the place's former manager. His dry, shriveled form was slouched against the front of the bar, and he would have been just another nameless corpse but for the large, thick-rimmed glasses that sat on his lap. He'd always been pushing them up higher onto his nose while telling her that she couldn't have a free refill, no matter how many times she tried to weasel one out of him. The poor guy had decided to poison himself rather than suffering through Rapture's deterioration.

_Such memories_, Ruth mused. It was difficult to remember how the dining room had looked before everything went to hell, and by this point, it would have been nice to see even an ugly John, so long as he was lively, sane, and willing to talk and share a cigarette afterwards. Maybe the loneliness and lingering touch of death was what had driven Cynthia to Father Wales and borderline madness. Ruth could understand such a longing, but joining Lamb's horde of morons and monsters? Definitely not. No, no, and no.

A light bulb flickered overhead, and then Ruth was in the kitchen, which was surprisingly clean since she maintained it. She'd taken to cleaning it once a week, but never the dining room itself. She didn't want splicers to suspect anything, and some of them were crafty enough to set elaborate traps for careless wanderers. No, it was best to keep herself discreet, and today she planned to have a discreet, little celebration.

"To Cynthia," she sighed as she popped open a bottle of champagne. The action made her feel like a real lady again as she poured herself a glass and sat on the long countertop that bordered the room, her mind taking note of the spotless black and white floor, and remembering how damn hard it had been to lug the bodies out of this place. The smell had been the worst part, but nothing compared to the gore that had once been rampant in this building. Most of the blood was dry now, and bodies had shriveled into husks, and splicers didn't stay long since this was a hot spot for Little Sisters. The bodies drew the girls out of hiding.

The champagne flute was almost to her lips when Ruth heard a crunching sound. It was the crunch of heels on broken glass, and her ears sharpened as her body tensed. She didn't get deathly afraid anymore. No, that had vanished long ago when death had still been a stranger to her. Now she set her glass aside, and hoisted her shotgun into a firing position as she crept toward the open doorway. If someone was going to bother her, she would damn well blast the bastard's head off.

_Creaaaaaaaaak._

She kept close to the wall as she reached the doorway, her eyes scanning the once vibrant dining room and bar beyond. Posters still hung on the walls, and the jukebox in the corner glowed, just waiting for someone to insert a few coins. Sometimes the splicers played music and danced on the large, open floor where tables had once sat, but Ruth wasn't interested in that as she noticed movement near the bar. A man had stood up from crouching behind the counter—tall, straight-backed, and wearing a rumpled, black suit. A rabbit mask hid his upper face from view as he proceeded to pour himself a glass of alcohol.

Ruth's fingers carefully cocked the shotgun.

_Click._

"Who's there?" the man demanded while whipping a pistol out from his belt. He was aiming in her direction, and while Ruth continued to stare down the barrel of her gun, she didn't pull the trigger. This man's voice didn't sound like that of a splicer. It was controlled and rang of sanity, as did his steady hold on his weapon, and the fact that his tall form lacked any signs of abnormality. Yes, the mask's rabbit ears looked ridiculous on a grown man, and Ruth had thought as much since first seeing them at the New Year's party, but she'd seen far stranger things since then, and that was the least of her concerns now.

"I know that someone's there," the man calmly continued, still aiming the pistol while proceeding to finish pouring himself a drink with his free hand. "I'm just going to have a drink and leave. Don't get trigger happy." He spoke with a slight drawl that was barely noticeable, but still present, as if he were a southern boy who'd worked to erase his accent over the years. Whoever he was, he definitely wasn't crazed.

"Do you think that the splicers will mistaken you for one of them with that mask on?" she asked, lowering her weapon. She wouldn't step out of the doorway's shadows just yet, but her worry quieted as the man also lowered his weapon, tossing the pistol onto the countertop before opening a jar of cherries and dropping one of the red orbs into his drink.

Red. It reminded Ruth of Adam, and Little Sisters guzzling their bloody treats, and a whole host of other unpleasant things.

"I've found that fewer splicers bother me when I go about incognito," the man replied, stirring his drink with a finger before lifting the glass to his lips. He took one sip, the raising of his right arm revealing a long tear in the sleeve of his jacket, and Ruth noting a small bloodstain on the front of his white undershirt. All in all though, he looked healthy and rather prim considering the circumstances, especially since a freshly cut flower was pinned to his jacket's lapel, as if he were going out for the evening.

"And what about you, my lady?" he asked, looking in her direction. "How have you avoided adding yourself to Rapture's mass grave? You certainly don't sound like a splicer."

"I'm not," Ruth answered, finally stepping out of the doorway and into the dining room. "I'm merely a woman who was in the middle of commemorating the passing of an acquaintance before she was so rudely interrupted. And now, if you're not planning to shoot me, I'm going to take some of those cherries." The man smiled, and it wasn't one of the splicer's crooked smiles, nor the blissfully ignorant smile of a Little Sister. It looked quite nice actually, and Ruth found herself a bit relieved to realize that she wasn't alone down here—alone to wallow in miserable sanity until her heart could stand it no longer and shattered.

"I'll tell you what," the man suggested. "Why don't you come sit over here? I'll make you a drink, and we can commemorate together."

"And how do I know that you're not going to try anything?" Ruth asked, wary by instinct. Even the sane ones could be dangerous, for how else could someone survive down here? Oh, she knew that there were still kind-hearted people, Gracie Holloway being one, but they were few and far between.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already," the man honestly told her, leaning against the counter with one hand while he swirled his drink with the other. "As is, I haven't had the company of a normal person in a long time, and especially not a beautiful one. Please. Allow me to pour you that drink."

"I suppose that I'm not rushing off to anything important," Ruth decided, righting a stool and sitting at the bar. The man stood on the other side of the counter, and she could now see the dark stubble that decorated his lower face. She hadn't seen such a normal looking face in a long time, and through the eyeholes of his mask stared dark and intelligent eyes of velvet.

I'm Ruth Conlisk, by the way," she offered, watching as he began mixing her the promised drink. "Former artist turned...entrepreneur in pleasure, turned survivor of the apocalypse."

"Elliot Vanderbilt," he returned. "Businessman socialite, although I haven't been doing much socializing lately, and it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Conlisk."

"Likewise, and thank you for the drink." He passed it to her, and she could tell that he was carefully watching her, one of his hands never far from his pistol, which still lay idle. Her shotgun was resting against the side of her stool, and with a drink in hand, she felt a faint trace of happiness that could only be attributed to the yearning for human contact that she'd been battling to destroy.

"Are you new to Siren Alley?" she asked, finding that she wanted to have a conversation with this stranger.

"Not entirely," he answered. "I'm from Apollo Heights, but after the New Year's incident, I was a little low on luck. With everyone running around and trying to figure out which way was up, I took what leisure I could, and you ladies here didn't care who we were fighting for either. Every man was just another lonely guy in this place—a blessing really. A toast to the women who gave the survivors a taste of joy before death."

"I'll drink to that," Ruth smiled, downing her glass and finding herself more relaxed with each passing moment. "But the joy's totally gone now, Elliot," she then stated. "Why you've returned to this dead place is beyond me."

"Ah, but have you journeyed outside of this apartment building?" the man asked. "All of Rapture is the same—just like this place—with very few exceptions. There are a few communities of survivors scattered about, but they're mostly scavengers who are little better than the splicers, and everyone wants out. Of course, some don't even want that anymore. They're too far gone to care, and even if we could escape, who on the surface would want us? We're all monsters of a kind down here, devouring ourselves or preaching illusions." He said the last bit with a mocking, bitter edge, and Ruth found herself wondering what he looked like beneath that mask, even if it only covered the upper half of his face.

"And what kind of monster are you?" she asked him.

"The kind that no one sees coming," he smartly answered with a half-smile, and Ruth smirked right back at him.

"As long as you're not going to turn into a Sander Cohen on me, I'll take my chances," she dismissed, making the man chuckle in his rich voice.

"You met Sander Cohen before he was killed?"

"Twice," she replied. "Once when he was merely an arrogant bastard, and once after he'd lost his marbles. He came down here looking for a woman to sing for him, but what he got was a molotov cocktail flying at his head. Later, he sent some splicers down here to collect women for his latest art exhibition. I believe that it had something to do with plastered corpses."

"That sounds like Cohen," the man nodded, pouring himself another glass. "More, my dear?"

"No, thank you," she answered, knowing that she shouldn't trust this stranger. "But you _can_ tell me why you're here. It's a little late to come looking for some fun. Fun moved out a long time ago." He kicked back his second drink, and when his head tilted backward, Ruth noticed a strange discoloration in some of the veins on his neck. It was hard to discern in the faint lighting, but she was sure that something wasn't quite right with what she was seeing. The faint lines beneath his pale skin seemed almost...black.

"I was on my way to Fontaine Futuristics when the train broke down," the man explained, setting his glass aside to smooth back his dark hair. He needn't have attempted to do so though, for it was clear to Ruth that his hair was slicked back over his head, which looked quite nice when matched with his mostly clean suit.

"So you ended up wandering into this place," Ruth stated. "Any plans?"

"None at the moment," he shrugged. "Although I must be going soon."

_Click_.

Both of them turned to stare at the room's main entrance, the broken windows of the restaurant's front offering a clear view of the ruined landing beyond, which appeared empty. There was never any certainty when it came to such things though, even when stray noises were often caused by the falling of plaster or brick from the ceiling. It happened on a regular basis.

"If you came from Apollo Heights, you must be tired," she finally said, waiting for a few seconds before turning back to the bar and the man, who was tucking his pistol into his belt.

"I travel fast," he replied. "And although it pains me to say this to such a beautiful woman, that train isn't going to fix itself."

"Perhaps not," Ruth agreed, finding that she didn't want this man to leave just yet. Reminded of Cynthia's plight, she stared at his masked face, and wondered when and if she'd ever meet a normal person like this again. The chances were fairly slim, and on top of that, this man seemed to have some direction to his wandering, unlike herself. She'd been aimless for so long that she couldn't even remember what it felt like to be motivated beyond survival. Sometimes she didn't even consider that a motivation either, but rather, attributed her continued existence to pure stubbornness.

"Your cherries," the man was saying, pushing the sealed jar toward her.

"For such a polite person, you're rushing off rather quickly," she told him. "Fontaine Futuristics isn't going anywhere, and you're not going to find a safe haven out there anytime soon either. You might as well spend the night, so to speak, Elliot Vanderbilt. It's been a long time since anyone made me feel human, and I have a feeling that the same is true for you too, monster or not."

She waited for his response, merely watching as he stared at her with those dark eyes of his, and willing him to give her this small respite.

"That's a very kind offer, but what would the lady like in repayment?" he slowly asked.

"This one's on the house," she gently smiled. "What good would money do me down here anyway? You seem like a proper man, Elliot. I'm not looking to stab you in the back or demand a favor in return for this. I'm merely offering you a safe place to sleep, and a little comfort besides all that. Take it or leave it as you will." Perhaps she wasn't dolled up, and maybe her once perfectly smooth arms sported a few scars now, but she knew that she was still a lovely woman, especially considering what most of the other women had become.

"How long has it been since someone whispered in your ear while trailing a hand down your back?" she enticingly asked, standing and letting her shotgun rest against her right shoulder.

"A long time," the man admitted with a distant smile and morose tone.

"If you're interested, follow me," Ruth instructed. "If not, you may return to your train." But she was hoping that he didn't choose the latter option, and she wasn't disappointed as she neared the exit of the restaurant. She was reaching for the doorknob when his hand beat her to it, almost making her jump. She hadn't even heard him move.

"Allow me," he charmingly offered, opening the door and holding it for her.

"You're making me feel much classier than I am," she smiled.

"Not at all," he assured her, holding out an arm so that she might loop hers through it. "I don't know what made you choose this lifestyle, but whatever your faults, they cannot possibly compare to what I've seen. It seems to me that most women were just trying to survive like everyone else, but not all of you had experience with weapons or violence, so you used what you had. Besides, you probably haven't practiced your...profession in quite a while, and you've learned to handle a weapon since then, haven't you? The options are a bit broader now, I daresay."

"You can say that again," Ruth agreed, watching him from the corner of her eyes, and appreciating his obviously keen sense of people and circumstances. He must have been incredibly good at his job with a mind like that. "But I still haven't been a classy woman since before the war. The last party that I attended was at the Kashmir Restaurant, and I broke one of my heels while going downstairs. I went into the bathroom to assess the damage, and that's the only reason that I wasn't present when the violence started. I could hear people counting down to the new year, and then nothing but screaming and gunshots. Somehow I ended up here, spreading my legs for extra shotgun shells and cash."

"There's no shame in that."

"Oh, but there is," Ruth countered, tugging on his arm to direct him down the nearby stairwell. "Some people sold their bodies to plasmids. Some of us sold them to men, but the ends were the same. I haven't felt alive in forever."

"But you didn't sell your soul," Elliot stated, making Ruth stare sidelong at him. Her arm felt good looped through his as they walked.

"You believe that?" she softly asked. "That plasmids destroy the soul and the body?"

"I've seen nothing to indicate anything less damning," he smoothly replied. "Have you?" She silently thought about his words, thinking of Ryan's desire that this city stand as a testament to the greatness of man. Souls had been forgotten down here. They weren't supposed to even exist, but whatever name people gave or denied such an abstract notion, Ruth knew what Elliot was talking about. There was a sense in this place that morality and conscience had been stamped out of the people—that progress had replaced tenderer things like love and compassion. Ruth didn't know what to call that, but the loss of soul struck her as a poetic label for it.

"Here," she said, unlocking the door to her room. "It's safe in here." She stepped inside, and turned to watch her companion enter, his strides graceful and confident in a way that reminded her of the elites with whom she'd sometimes brushed shoulders. This was a man who'd been someone. That much she knew.

"I haven't slept in a real bed since leaving Apollo Heights," the man stated, removing and tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair.

"It's the little pleasures of life that make this place bearable," Ruth told him, stepping closer and reaching for his mask.

"No," he simple said, his voice soft but firm, and one of his hands catching hers.

"Have it your way," she easily relented. She'd had Johns with stranger quirks. "Although the rabbit ears might get in the way of my hands. I hope that you're not wearing a cotton tail to match." That made the man chuckle as she stepped back and began to unbutton the front of her dress. She thought that he might watch, but instead, he dropped his trousers and removed his shirt, somehow managing to do so without disturbing his mask. The remainder of his clothing was quickly tossed aside as well, giving her a clear view of his well-built body, which she took her time in admiring.

"Hello Adonis," she joked, aware that he was studying her as well, for she'd already dropped her dress onto the floor.

"Likewise, Aphrodite." He really was a flirt, and Ruth found herself beaming, unexpectedly touched by his charm. He could have silently taken her and gone, but he seemed like he would take his time, making this all the more treasured in her eyes. To feel another human touch her through the grime of this city...

"And now that I've had time to admire your finely sculpted body..." Elliot never finished his sentence as he flicked off the lights. There was a soft sound, almost like a puff of air, and then his hands were on her hips, guiding her toward the bed as they kissed. And oh, but he was marvelous. The thought crossed Ruth's mind numerous times as he indulged in her, her hands trailing through his hair and down his back, across his waist and back into his hair. He was as methodical and talented as she'd hoped, although he did quietly apologize for his rustiness at one point. She merely quieted him with a fierce kiss, and when her hands were again in his hair, she suddenly realized that the mask had been missing for some time, but she couldn't see what he looked like in the dark. She could only guess.

"I hope that those other men paid you well," he stated when finished, rolling onto his back and lounging in the bed. "It would be a crime if they didn't."

"I was never a cheap woman," Ruth replied, laying beside him and trying to peer through the darkness. It was of no use though, for not even a shred of dim lighting crept into the room from beyond the tightly sealed door.

"Thank goodness that you're not charging me then," he said, sounding amused as his voice drifted over her. She liked his faint accent, and she even liked the stubble that met her fingers as she grazed his chin with her fingertips. "Truly, my dear, thank you for everything, sharing a drink included."

"You're very people-smart," she stated. "And charming to boot—a dangerous combination—but you wouldn't have made it into this room years ago, not with a tear in the jacket and blood on your shirt. Either my standards are dropping, or you're even better than I'm giving you credit for."

"You have no idea," he spoke, softer than before, his lips suddenly near her ear. "It's actually very fortunate that you invited me into your room. I'm assuming that your extra ammo is stored in that nook behind the picture of you and your former young man." Ruth began sitting up, but he pushed her back into the mattress, keeping her there with his superior strength as she bitterly smiled, but of course, he couldn't see it in the dark.

"Well, damn," she grumbled. "And here I thought that a spider splicer would eventually get me with a hook in the back."

"No need to be so melodramatic," the man replied, still sounding amused. "Just close your eyes and take a nap." Something sweet began to invade her nostrils, and although she'd never experienced this before, Ruth had heard stories about sleep plasmids: the scent of flowers, the drowsiness, and the faint nausea that was working its way up the back of her throat. That bastard. Maybe she could reach her shotgun, but it wasn't where she'd left it beside the bed.

"There, there," the man all but cooed. "I'm not one to put a lady in distress, so do forgive me. I truly am grateful for your kindness, but our ways part here. The future's never a certain thing, my dear lady. Maybe yours will be better than what faces the rest of us—those of us who didn't keep ourselves as pure as yourself."

Pure. He thought that she was pure. Ruth's vision darkened, and she fell into a dream from which waking was hardly certain. Her last conscious thought concerned the tenderness with which her guest laid her head onto the pillow, and the lingering touch of a fingertip against her lower lip. The gesture was far gentler than anything she'd felt in this place for a long time, and she inwardly sighed as the fingertip and consciousness deserted her. A soft goodbye, just like in a proper novel, and then there was nothing but silence.


End file.
